


How can the world compare

by fairylightness



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Sam Winchester, Winchester Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylightness/pseuds/fairylightness
Summary: It's just a planet when you're not there: :Sam after Dean - A study of grief





	How can the world compare

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Guillemots, idea borrowed from 3AM, mistakes all mine.

After the sickening _crack_ of skull under the creature's claw and the gunshot that followed a split second too late, Sam thinks about the five stages of grief and reckons there should be another, _annoyance_ , because that's what he feels at the thought of having to deal with Dean's body, such damn _nuisance_. He's already buried the creature and now he has neither time nor energy for more digging, more blisters, more anything.

It's starting to get dark, and he and Dean must get back to the Impala before it starts raining for real and Dean catches another cold, like a frail old lady, that guy. If they're lucky, the traffic won't suck and they might get back to the Bunker in time for the broadcast of that UFC finale thing that Dean wouldn't shut up about for weeks. Sam is looking forward to a hot shower, dry socks, Dean's hand patting his shoulder in that _good job, Sammy_ way; the simple things.

Weary, that's what he is, jaded, as the sound of the birds slowly dies off in the dusk while he half walks, half crawls under the weight of his duffel and Dean's body. Dean's body that went cold fast in the autumn drizzle, that went rigid over Sam's shoulders, that just starts to get pliant again when Sam can't move his legs anymore and stops dead in his tracks to wrap the heavy weight of his brother in the blanket that kept them warm during stake-out a night ago, an eon ago. The pattern of freckles in sharp contrast against pale skin dances before Sam's eyes as he salts and burns the pile, just like Dad taught them, his irritation back in full force when the damn damp thing won't ignite properly, and he can't help but complain about it to Dean real loud, his bitchy tone familiar like a song a thousand times sung, and then uses Dean's good lighter and accelerant to burn the pyre.

He waits for the fire to die, and just as the last embers turn dark with the soil that Sam shovels over them, the sky among the branches turns light, so he can start walking again, he and his returned sight and numb lips, and while he can force himself to move his legs, he cannot for the life of him gather the strength to talk, so he and Dean just walk in silence. They've missed the match, and his socks are anything but dry, and his mouth is desert and his stomach growling, and _hell, he'll have to buy a new blanket now, goddammit._

Sam's aggravation is about to reach the very limit when he finally, _finally_ , heaves his enormous lead-heavy body out of the woods and to the side of the road where they'd left the Impala. For once in his life he's happy about Dean's eternal love for the car and possessiveness over driving because that means Sam gets to sleep on the way home.

He fishes the car keys out of Dean's jacket pocket and turns around to throw them at Dean, but Dean isn't there, oh right, he's dead and buried in the woods, and Sam tells him that out loud, _you're dead and buried in the woods_ , and then the meaning of the seven words hits him, and the world tilts sideways and drops on his shoulders and his lungs and his heart that suddenly forgets how to beat.

: : :

After, he stares at the cracks on the rain-dark road, right in the middle of it, between the faded yellow lines, and thinks about how it would feel to crawl along them, the front of his shirt getting wet and dirty, the taste of water and dust at the corners of his mouth, the asphalt merciless under his broken nails, leaving fingerprints in a bloody trail; or maybe just lie there, cold road under one cheek, cold rain on the other, awaiting traffic that never comes, but maybe the vultures would.

He feels a sudden, heavy urge to sit down, dragging by his ankles and waist and ribs, and he braces himself on the hood of the car, Dean's car, _Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean_ like his heartbeat in his ears. He thinks he might pass out, hopes that he really would, just breathes instead, inhale on _I'm_ , exhale on _sorry_ , infinite loop _._ He can breathe for the rest of his life and still never be able to redeem with apologies, and Dean will never be able to hear them, he'll never know how much Sam wishes he was in Dean's place.

He breathes and breathes and breathes, and it's not enough.

: : :

After, he drives and walks and unlocks doors and paces like a caged animal, and then he stops moving altogether and the moment is suddenly too big for his chest, he wishes he could split his skin, wants it to escape, and he feels an overwhelming need to do _something_ , something extraordinary, something painful.

But he just stands there, like he's practicing the stillness of mountains, thinks of fingers snapped off with a twist of dental floss, hands splayed over burners, collapsed lungs, broken teeth, knees bent backwards. It's not enough, _no no no no no NO,_ and there's a snap of movement and time loses shape in a lightning-bolt white, and when the world comes back into focus, Sam is panting on his knees, heavy arms and heavy heart, blood under fingernails, the place a mess, torn pages snowing down and settling around him, echoes of breaking still resonating in corners like souls are escaping the broken and shattered and crushed things.

Sam is one of them.

He rises and treads wearily and descends to his bed carefully and slowly like an old man, curls around his feeling, the biggest thing in the room, hell, bigger than the room, the world. Dean had always been larger than life, and now the absence of Dean is, _how bloody appropriate_ , Sam thinks – inexplicably – in a British, Crowley accent, and something inside him breaks and he opens his mouth and laughs and laughs and even to his own ears it sounds terribly hysterical but he can't stop, and he thinks that if someone was watching "The Great Sam Winchester Show" for the last hour, they could see a restless man then an immovable man then a hurricane man then an emptied man and now an absolute lunatic, and the mental image is so strikingly _Lucifer_ that it shocks him right out of his laughing fit. In the suddenly quiet room he realizes that his face is wet and he can't breathe properly and oh, maybe he has been crying all this time, actually.

It's still not enough.

: : :

After, Sam breathes manually, and eats when he remembers to, and showers every other morning, and walks around and buys groceries and locks the doors every night and never, ever moves his face. His wrinkles smooth out and his laughter lines do, too, and he can't stand the sound of his voice, so he doesn't use it. He can't stand the sound of his thoughts, so he doesn't use them, either. He doesn't cry and he doesn't research and he doesn't hunt, he doesn't smile at puppies and he doesn't flip channels and he doesn't sleep, he doesn't really do anything, and still he couldn't tell you where all the time went.

Time was measured in _deans_ once, each Led Zeppelin song approximately one _dean_ long, five _deans_ for the usual burger dinner, endless _deans_ of car rides. Now it's only hours and minutes and it's excruciatingly dull, that's what it is, this life without his brother, and empty. Every morning, he is surprised to see his very present two arms and two legs and can't quite figure out which limb it is that is missing, then. He knows he should feel gratitude that after all these years in the business he still owns all four, that he was spared, but he can't really remember how to feel _anything_ these days. He tries, but the memory just isn't there, and he learns that not being dead doesn't mean being alive.

It's not enough.

: : :

After, the leaves change and disappear and reappear, but Sam isn't there to see any of it.

One day, he loses himself in the delicate designs of the spider web in the corner while he's getting dressed, so it takes a while for him to notice that the jeans he had put on have slipped right off his sharp hipbones, and he looks down at them gathered by his ankles and sees the hollow of his belly, skin stretched thin and grey like canvas over ribs, and the thought of Egyptian mummies comes unwelcome.

Suddenly, he feels buried alive. He tries to think of the color green and fails, _oh for God's sake, Samuel, you must remember green, come on,_ and the idea obsesses him, so he hurries across the Bunker, concrete rough and cold under his feet, one hand holding his jeans while the other unlocks the doors.

The air that rushes inside is humid and faintly forest-sour and _alive_ when it hits him in the chest, and he feels the warmth on his bare forearms, and the sky is buzzing with insects. So, it must be summer, then. Sam stares at his knotted knuckles in the low late-afternoon sunlight, orange and golden underneath the cinder-grey clouds, and thinks, _these knuckles fought demons and angels just the same, and they've lost battles but won wars, and now they are paper-covered stone, unacceptable_.

He looks at the grass and leaves and moss, making sure to anchor the color deep down in his memory, and an unexpected calm washes over him and takes him by surprise, until he remembers.

Green was the color of Dean's eyes.

Sam glances back over his shoulder like he's expecting him to be there, following Sam out of the bunker, heading out on a hunt, just another salt-and-burn, _piece of cake, Sammy_ , but there's no one there, just the greys and browns and blacks of the old building that was always very useful but never really loved, with its unfriendly floor materials and echoing bathrooms and artificial light and artificial air and empty bedrooms with ceilings known by heart and mattresses worn out in the shape of his body.

Sam lets it all go and turns back to the sunlight and thinks, _enough_.

: : :


End file.
